


Two Meetings Both Alike in Dignity

by kat8cha



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat8cha/pseuds/kat8cha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two theories on the recruitment of Coulson or Hawkeye, who preceeded the other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coulson's Hamster

His name is Phil Coulson and he's a mid-level bureaucrat at the NSA and it is Clint's assignment to kidnap him.

Which is pretty ironic since the reason Clint joined the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division was because it was supposed to keep him out of trouble. At least that was what Natasha had told him during her recruitment speech. 'It'll keep you out of trouble', she'd said and she'd said it with her delicate, deadly hands on his cheeks while she stared into his eyes, 'you'll know you're working for the good guys' and how was he supposed to say no? He never could, not to Natasha. Especially not since his track record of working for 'good guys' versus 'bad guys' leaned more towards him getting screwed over than him doing any actual good work.

It's been four years and now Clint is watching Phil Coulson get into his sensible mid-size car and drive to his sensible mid-size apartment with his sensible… alright, no, the hamster is rather large and puffy and definitely not sensible. It reminded Clint of a tribble but he had to keep the joke to himself since none of his colleagues would have understood and he has to keep radio silence anyway. He's starting to hit the end of his rope though, another day of this and Clint is going to start making cracks to the empty air or into his radio, one will get him a black mark on his report the other will get him yet another psych evaluation. He's not sure how THE STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION, ENFORCEMENT AND LOGISTICS DIVISION always seems to know when he's been talking to himself (he suspects bugs except that he always sweeps his 'snipers nest', he's going to start suspecting telepathy next) but every time he starts to hum or makes jokes to nobody he ends up in therapy for at least week. Nick always brushes that kind of thing aside, a normal agent would be in there for maybe a month, but Fury knows him and as crazy as Clint is it's not something sitting in a taupe room while an overpaid company shrink looks down their overly pointy nose at him is going to cure.

Clint gets out of the car he was using to shadow Coulson and steps around to the back. He's popping the trunk to get his bag (he's just supposed to taze the guy but he figures better safe than sorry) when he feels the muzzle of a gun press against his neck. People will tell you that the muzzle of a gun is cold. Sometimes it is, but when it's a gun that's been kept in a shoulder holster covered by a suit jacket all day it's generally close to body temperature.

"Evening, Mister Coulson." Clint lets the bag drop and lifts his hands in the air. He's making it obvious he has a gun stuck to his head but both Coulson and Clint know that none of the man's neighbors are going to be looking out of their windows at this time of night. Coulson works from ungodly early to way too fucking late and the neighbors that aren't asleep are plugged into their television sets or their computers. "Nice night we're having."

"It's nice enough now." Coulson steps back and Clint tips his head to the side so that he can see the gun still pointed unwaveringly at his skull, and pats him down with one hand, finding no guns on Clint's person. Clint doesn't need guns, doesn't like guns, though he does use guns. Coulson tosses away the knife Clint keeps strapped to his ankle but he ignores the bits of detritus in Clint's pockets however and that is going to cost him if it comes down to a fight. "But there's a storm rolling in."

Clint doesn't have to stay still, he doesn't have to move when Phil motions that Clint should precede him (Coulson closes the trunk solicitously as they walk away from the car) and he doesn't have to step into Coulson's apartment building. The moment the gun was pressed to his head he could have disarmed Phil, pressing a gun to someone's head is showy and if you're not going to pull the hammer right then and there it's too easy to get the gun taken away. Most people will still freeze up… but Clint is not most people.

He's beginning to suspect that Phil Coulson isn't most people either.

The minute they're inside the building Phil puts his gun back into his holster and motions towards the elevator. Clint raises an eyebrow but seeing as Coulson hasn't said anything he shrugs and goes with it. The ride up to the fifth floor is silent and the walk to the door of Coulson's apartment equally so. It takes Coulson a couple of seconds to unlock his door and then they both step inside.

Again, Clint is about to speak, but Coulson motions for him to stay silent and begins to sweep his apartment for bugs. Clint raises both eyebrows this time before he takes a diffident seat on one of the plush couches that obviously came with the apartment. Besides the basic furniture and electronics the apartment is bare, no art on the walls and no picture frames on the end tables, it's as emotionless as Clint had seen from his nest across the street.

"We're clean." Phil pockets the electronic bug sniffer and heads for the kitchenette, he returns with two cold bottles of water. "You've been watching me."

Clint takes the water and uncaps it. He debates dropping one of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division little poison detectors in but decides to trust the man. After all, he's trusted him this far, hasn't he? Another mark for reckless endangerment coming right up. Clint takes a sip. "I'm beginning to think I’m not the only one."

Phil opens his own water bottle to take a sip although he sets it right down afterwards. "You don't know?"

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division believed-" Coulson was holding up a hand and looking disbelieving, Clint stopped. "What?"

"The…" Phil Coulson's mouth moved but no sound came out. "The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?" He sounded disbelieving. Clint, a trained espionage agent, was not about to squirm. He knew it was a ridiculously long name after all. "That's quite a mouthful."

"If you can think of a better term for our agency I'm sure my boss would love to hear it." Clint grinned, Nick was going to give him hell for getting caught but he could already tell that Nick was going to _love_ Phil. "He sent me to arrange a meeting."

"He sent you to kidnap me." Coulson replied, flatly. "Because that's how the game is played when you're blacker than black ops."

Clint shrugged. They were one of those agencies that ran everything but were known to only a few, but that was just for right now. There was a plan to bring them into the light in a few years, step by step working their way into the American consciousness until they were just like any other of the agencies working to keep the world safe. Working in secret was beginning to get too dangerous, you weren't trusted when you were the most secretive of secret agencies and in the modern age you always, always got found out. Clint suspected there was something else at work but he didn't have the clearance to find out more. "That's the way the game is played, yup."

Coulson picked up his water bottle and rubbed his thumb along the label. Clint leaned back and let the man think. It was obvious what Clint was offering, what the Str- what the agency was offering. Both of them also knew that Hydra had seen fit to make a recruitment pitch. Not a terribly forceful one, apparently, but even if Coulson didn't, Clint knew that Hydra would be back and they wouldn't be as nice.

"Is it going to be a long drive?" Coulson asked, breaking the silence between them. Clint hadn't really thought about that, so he shrugged. The older man looked at Clint, sighed, shrugged out his jacket, and headed for the bathroom. "I'll be right out, and then we can go."

The bathroom door shut and Clint heard the sounds of a bladder releasing. He snickered as he finished up his water bottle. This guy was sensible, at least. Clint could get used to working with him.


	2. Ratty Motels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Coulson met (Sally) Clinton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that movieverse borrows heavily from Ultimates (or so I have heard) but I REALLY HATE ULTIMATES because everyone is an asshole. Hence, this has nothing to do with Ultimates Hawkeye and is completely made up.

It takes the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division six months before they catch up to and capture Clinton Francis Barton. It's a rather impressive span of time, all things considered, but Coulson isn't about to let Barton in on that fact. He's watching Barton through the viewing window with the man's file open in his hands. It's an impressive file too. His early years are as well documented as can be, he was given all of his shots and regular check-ups with the doctor, he attended school, was orphaned, and sent to foster care. Then, when Barton's barely a teenager, there's a blank space of time where he goes off grid. Things pick up again when Barton's 18 and joining the service, a freshly won G.E.D. in his pocket and a bright career as a sniper ahead of him.

Until he was dishonorably discharged for disobeying orders. Coulson has the reports and being who he is can read between the lines, he doubts that Barton disobeyed just for kicks and giggles. C.O.s could be bastards and sometimes you got the wrong kind of bastard with the right kind of soldier.

Things get patchy after that, his checks cashed in a variety of locations and a handful of credit card payments on motel rooms in a variety of states, mostly on the west coast, and then there's the bank heist. Oh, it wasn't Barton's bank heist, as much as the men in lock-up and their organized crime lawyers would claim. The bank heist had been classic, Phil had wondered why anyone would rob a bank in person now-a days but had found out through undercover agents and interrogation that it was a hazing ritual, and it would have gone off without a hitch… if it wasn't for the work of one Clint Barton. No one is sure why Barton had his bow on him in the bank (all packed up in a case) but from security footage one could see him talking to one of the bank employees for close to half an hour before he headed for the bathroom. They know that Barton opened an account and was talking about a loan for a business when everything went down.

The men in lockup claim that Barton was working with them all along, that he got greedy and decided he wanted all the money for himself. The police claim that Barton assaulted officers as well as bank employees.

Coulson believes that if Barton had assaulted officers, but only because they attempted to arrest him. Apparently the man's dislike for obviously crooked authority did not stop with his dismissal from the army. Barton's run had started sloppy but had picked up speed the longer he ran. If it wasn't for the initial start and the fact that they had their thumb in every security system's pie across the country the man might have managed to get away.

The van rumbled into the motel's parking lot. The motel is run down, Red Room Inn, and it is clearly the kind of place that if you needed it to charge by the hour it would oblige quickly enough. One o and n in the sign have gone dark as well as the n in Vacancy. It's exactly the kind of place one would expect a wanted fugitive to go to ground; it all feels very… classic, like a scene from a movie where you already know the ending. Coulson drums his fingers along his gun holster, tucked underneath a black suit jacket, before he opens the van door and slips outside. "Hand me one of those walky-talkies and give me 30 minutes. If I don't radio in operate under principal 42." The team leader looks ready to object but Coulson gives the man his best 'I know what I'm doing, please don't make me fill out the paperwork for shooting you' smile. It's a decent smile, Phil's been practicing it most of his bureaucratic career.

"Yes, sir." The man responds and Phil knows he'd be happy to see him dead, one less pencil pusher in the world to force him to do paperwork or sit through lengthy debriefings. He, and people like him, were the reason they needed to recruit men like Barton. Not that Coulson thought Barton would be any better about doing paperwork but he would, at least, not need to be ordered around every 5 minutes. Hand holding only got them in trouble.

Coulson climbed the flight of stairs by the pool and kept one eye on the window overlooking the pool. There was a twitch of curtain and then nothing. As no calls came through his radio Phil concluded that Barton had instead chosen to watch the window that faced the hallway. Phil knew he didn't look like the type to visit this establishment, he stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb, but he was also not an armed SWAT team.

He rapped on the door three times. "Mister Barton, I'd like to have a word with you."

Silence from inside the room before the door opened. There was no opening by inches to be caught on a latch, Barton opened it widely and leaned against the frame. He made himself into a target and Coulson was sure it was purposeful. The sightlines needed to hit Barton inside the door didn't exist anyway, especially not with Coulson positioned as he was.

Interesting.

"My hotel room is your hotel room, Mister M.I.B." Barton motioned behind him at the rather derelict room. The wallpaper was peeling at the corners and the bed looked like it could use a bleaching. Barton hadn't bothered to peel down the comforter and appears to have been using his backpack for a pillow.

"I'd prefer to talk out in the hallway."

Barton shrugs. He's got 5 o'clock shadow going and his shirt could use a washing, there are also circles under his eyes. "Suit yourself, suit. What can I help you with?" The man is clearly ready to give in. Six months of running can't be good for you, life is not, after all, a movie. You don't retain savoir faire and expensive suits and money does not rain from the sky. Most people don't know how to con their way out of a paper bag much less operate enough credit card fraud to keep themselves from falling apart.

"It's not what you can help me with, Mister Barton." It takes everything Coulson has not to adjust his tie or his suit. "It's what I can do for you. I'm here to make you an offer."

Barton's chuckle is self-effacing and tired. "An offer I can't refuse? Or is this that one that's too good to be true?"

"Do I look like the mob, Mister Barton?" This time Coulson does adjust his suit. Barton is not his first recruitment and he won't be his last (even if this doesn't go well which, pfah) but there's something about the man that almost irritates Coulson. It's like the man smells of disrespect for authority.

Or maybe he just hasn't showered in a while.

"…" Barton gives him a slow up and down and then a one shouldered shrug. "I guess not. So, Area 51, let me grab my gear and we can roll." The door closes and Coulson grabs hold of his radio. He's watching the exits, worried that maybe he should have just cuffed Barton and been done with it, when the man reappears with his pack slung over one shoulder and a smirk.

Coulson had a feeling it was the beginning to a rocky and oft fraught with peril friendship.


End file.
